


So It Begins

by 13letters



Category: X-Men: Apocalypse (2016) - Fandom
Genre: "Wreck" Room, Apocalypse spoilers, British Lingo, Casts, Charles Gets His Hair Back, Coming of Age, Fluff, Gratuitous Movie References, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Religious Themes, Romance, Slice of Life, Star Trek References, Star Wars References, Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters, frosted flakes, we're making this a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7073587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13letters/pseuds/13letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Some of you might be wondering why you're here," Charles says lightly, as light as the wind. The grass hasn't fully grown back, but the sun makes today lovely, makes it a perfect day to live, to save the world, to start one.</p><p>"We got letters," Jubilee says dreamily from where she's stretched out on the lawn. </p><p>"I didn't," Peter skulks. </p><p>"Yes, but you stole my card. And I don't mean this mansion, I mean this world. As mutants."</p><p>Scott almost laughs, so pragmatic, says "Mutations," like it's the simplest question mankind has ever been asked.</p><p>"Genetics." Where Jean's sitting cross-legged and alert on a blanket, he's reminded all too well of how she'd ask so many questions about the human genome. And maybe that -- that was genetic.</p><p>"Does it have to be scientific?" he wonders aloud, watching these young people think. </p><p>"You mean, like chemicals?" asks one.</p><p>"Divine intervention," suggests Kurt. His voice is shaky. </p><p>"Yes," the Professor agrees, he's heard this before. "It could be a curse, a mistake. It could just be God's good humor, I wager."</p><p>"Maybe," Kurt shrugs. "Or it could be Gott's good graces," he adds, and that could be it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> NOTICE: GO SEE THE MOVIE IF YOU HAVE NOT.
> 
> Okay.
> 
> So I really, _really_ wanted there to be a Wanda, and I haven't decided if she's Pietro's twin or that little girl from DoFP in the Princess Aurora costume -- they're just blood, and that's thicker than anything unless you can tell everyone but your dad that you're the son. Or daughter. I don't exclude here!
> 
> Second, I've been an X-Men nerd all my life and I have a lot oF FEELINGS RIGHT NOW, OKAY, and maybe I really want to add in Bobby, Kitty, John, Sam, Paige, Kevin, but I'm not too sure what lines are okay to cross here.
> 
> So enjoy this. <3 I think Kurt and Wanda will be the heart of this, but there's plenty more to enjoy! xox!

"Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, fellow mutants, students, professors, and faculty, what you're about to witness has never before been seen. This unveiling, this _groundbreaking_ display we've all the privilege to witness today, dear God, if we could just take a moment to remember all it took to get here --"

"Just the better part of an afternoon," frowns Scott, the only one not shielding his eyes from the sun.

Charles almost sighs -- almost -- it's just that young Mister Summers already reminds him so much of Alex, and it has to be true, these loved ones are all so prevalent in life even after they've passed.

But one wisecrack finally spoken, it's like a dam, even Hank shifts his weight impatiently, Peter huffs on his crutches and all but whines. "Seriously, you're taking this too slow."

"We did follow the original schematics," Jean has to graciously add, the traitor she is next to Scott. "We've all already seen the Mansion."

"Yes, well," he sighs, looking to Kurt trying to take everything in, the Maximoff siblings -- Peter just so ready to run, Wanda with more power than she realizes already, scuffed Converse just like her brother -- and Scott because technically, the few days he was present weren't enough for the lectures of each tree, bannister, and hidden room, rules to be repeated eleven times for all to listen -- this is still new for all of them.

It'd taken a lot to get here. Weary smiles and something that sets in the gut like hope, banners enveloping them all in cascading warmth that -- right. He's too old and pretentious for this, mmm. "Go on then," he smiles, calling in his Calvary to the double-wide doors.

A young man actually _sprints_ , much to Raven's dismay, she looks so joyous, but oh, she's seconds away from shouting _off my lawn!_. But it was just manicured yesterday, and grass doesn't grow as easy as people do.

"I'll just wait," Peter says to no one. He looks positively put upon while the students who signed his cast swarm around him, leaving him in their wake to their new home. "Kids these days," he quips, crutching his way next to Erik, elbows perched on the back of his wheelchair. He wonders when Peter will tell, if Erik will admit he already knows.

Always the better man, "Seems we're left with the finer company our student body has to offer," Erik says impassively, sparing Peter a look. "Do we trust these children not to burn the place down, Charles?"

"We trusted Alex."

"Is the insurance up to date, then?" he wonders vaguely, looking across the grounds, surveying the few children tucked under trees, living.

"Officially no reason to update it," he tells him. When Hank turns to look, he nonchalantly pretends to find the paneling oh-so fascinating. "The company doesn't need to know about the explosion."

"Naturally."

"Shall we go inside for some tea?" Charles asks, allowing himself only a spare moment to venture how these questions imply a sense of permanence and belonging. If Erik is no longer the prodigal son Raven sometimes damns herself into being, then perhaps they'll both stay. Just think of the good they could do these young people.

"Don't you have anything stronger, old friend?"

"It's only ten o'clock," Hank frowns, but Raven is holding open the doors, Erik is wheeling him in.

"Did you and Jean happen to make my office a few feet bigger, by any chance? And you know, I was thinking of getting rid of that wall separating the dining hall from the dining room."

Twenty odd years of practice, and Erik makes the appropriate noises of disbelief and interest. "But your great-grandmother had her maid whitewash the wall herself."

\- -- - -- -

"Literally," Jubilee starts, "literally _years_ , and I still have trouble finding the bathrooms," she complains, dredging down the hall with the rest of them. "Jean."

"God," she laughs, tugging Scott along so he'd know precisely where the bust of an old president used to sit on an end table long gone. "You're such a first world problem."

"The rug here is different."

"All the stuff's new."

"So." Like bubblegum, she clears her throat, tries to feel less.. conspicuous. Being the new kid and all, in her brother's fast footsteps, a dark blue sweater with frayed sleeves. "Can I ask exactly what happened?" And Wanda winces, just a teenager's confidence in this new world that's really so much bigger, goodness, a kid was climbing the walls back where the first place Jean brought her to -- the kitchen was -- and it's like. Peter was always special but what wouldn't you accept in family? And she was different and sometimes her toothpaste exploded, but so far Jean's been polite, so friendly, her first friend besides Professor Xavier definitely. And she can't see Scott's eyes but the lines of his mouth, she thinks he's just happy there are newcomers more dangerous that rumors say he was.

The Professor really did love that tree.

She also thinks he's lost a lot; there's a picture of Alex in the foyer (one he'll go stare at nights he can't sleep, but that's days and years away from the giddiness that's setting in the atmosphere here, churning like hope).

"None of us were actually there," he says, forcing his tone light like this was a conspiracy, "but it was, like. Mad. Nothing left, man."

"Just some curtains and a mattress," pipes up Jubilee. "You gonna tell us your story?"

"Wait, this painting," interrupts Jean, bringing them all to a stop. Jubilee's the only one that groans. "Now it can't be the original, it _used_ to be, but supposedly if you had looked behind it, there was an actual written note by Monet."

"..That can't be true," Wanda says, squinting at the streaks of color.

"The Professor said it was."

"The Professor told everyone not to eat his stash of Frosted Flakes," says Scott. He's the only that knows it, but he rolls his eyes. Jean just feels his annoyance like she's so acutely aware of how he stares at her sometimes, then turns as red as ruby Quartz, as red as she swears her hair naturally is. "Can't you show us the good stuff?"

And Wanda wants to laugh, but honestly the freedom here, how light everything is -- she's kinda waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I showed you where the cereal stash used to be. And the exact twist of the radio antenna you gotta give to get the best signal."

"I don't trust the radio host in this district," Wanda decides. And the look Jubes gives her, like.. like _God_ , the rest of her life here depends on her music taste. Not the levels of her humanity or mutation. "What? It's too Twisted Sister, not enough Thompson Twins."

"I love her," Jubilee declares, fisting her hand over her heart. Nothing but pure awe crosses over her face, and Scott actually smiles. "I love you. Girlie, we gotta get your room close to ours. We gotta -- get new stuff for our rooms."

"You blew your own stuff up anyways," mutters Jean, not unkindly.

"Not _on purpose_ ," she huffs. She shuffles her hand up to make sure her hairspray's intact, pops the yellow collar of her jacket. "We should go shop."

"You're the reason the economy's going to hell."

Jubilee shrugs very what-can-you-do, and the things they've lost, how hell kinda came -- it's not really surprising when Scott smiles tightly and starts walking backwards, too much angst to properly moonwalk. "I've actually got stuff," he starts, holding up his hands when Jubilee starts to protest. "It really can't wait."

"I didn't mean anything by it!" she half-shouts at him, but Scott just shakes his head.

"I'm fine!" He's totally not fine. "We'll get, like, dinner soon! No tea and crumpets again here."

"Xavier's been in the United States for years!" Jean calls, but Scott's laughing when he disappears down a hall, leaving just the three girls. "He wants to be alone," she says, voicing their thoughts before they can suggest following him and smothering him with the comfort grief needs to feel less lonely. She winces, though, but really, Scott needs to not think so loud --

"I thought I was going to lose my brother, too," Wanda says, startling herself. But it's true, and in the waiting room waiting for his surgery to finish, Christ, the dread of betraying her hope enough to fear what if he never could run again? "I'm going to see if I can find him," she adds to their looks, Jubilee's curious, Jean's impassive. "Thank you, though, you were very.. informative."

"I try."

"We'll see each other soon!"

But back treading the way she was brought this far in, she really, really should have paid more attention, shouldn't have gotten so lost in her own head.

And then really, it's like a movie, one that'll be a little too _Sixteen Candles_ , not enough _Gone With the Wind_. In Austen's books, she'll be more Emma than Eliza, she'll be an angel, but it's a childhood of being taught not to stare at scars, warts, bad haircuts, lipstick her friends get stuck on their teeth.

She doesn't stare at the blue man gaping at her, not his three fingers around a crucifix, his pointed tale. But the eye contact, _you square your chin and look your fears in the eye, Wanda,_ but _Peter, they have two_ , and his are red. Blood red, he's looking startled then curious then pitying, and she -- she.

"I'm sorry," she starts, what are words when that's so empty, she says it the same instant he says _don't_.

"Hello," he says thickly, accented, awkward. He's staring at her eyes, though, and she can't let go.

Until she has to, God, this is intense, "This is a closet," she realizes dumbly, lamely, glancing up to the single lone lightbulb dangling feet over his head, the wall that stops not too far behind the back of his chair. "Why?"

"It's rude to linger in a doorway," he tells her, not unkindly. Something in his voice is so gentle, however, his red eyes are, but he's been stared at here, _ja_ , but he's been welcomed here, too. He's not exactly telling her to leave, _nein_ , people fear what they can't understand, but he wouldn't take it too personally if she closed the door behind her.

It's not the confidence it takes to step onto a battlefield, after all. She inches just a step forward, but another step, her knees will knock into his, the holes in her jeans against the faded black denim of his. "Was that another language?" she asks tentatively, the murmuring she heard when curiosity killed the cat, had her opening up this door.

"German," and he _grins_ , pointed, yellowish teeth, but it makes all his face bright. By a miracle, lipgloss so sticky, it makes her all the more aware when she smiles bright back at him. " _Er war ein Engel_ ," he repeats. "He was an angel."

But that war still sounds like a war; sometimes the world just wants to fight like it made him, that circus had embraced him for so long, he thrived there -- and all Wanda sees is the shadows on his face, the mirth that darkens just so to something too cynical for a would-be member of the clergy. Perhaps it's because she doesn't know that he talks like he's had no time to, but it's easy sometimes the things you can say without enough reason to. Like you're telling an empty room. "He was an angel, and he was condemned."

"Like.. like Lucifer?" she asks blankly, unsurely. Who was this kid, and why say the Devil's name aloud like you're offering him dinner?

"They say his name was Warren."

"Satan wasn't always Satan, right?"

That must make him pause, but staring at her too intently, he must not like what he sees. "Right. But then he fell."

"I might be remembering it wrong, but he chose --"

"Eve chose."

"Adam was the only man around, and with a whole world out there," she tries, 'cause _c'mon_ , Adam was probably an idiot. Adam probably thought Journey was true rock music.

"He fell because he flew and his wings were burned. That was my fault," he mutters, like recompense, but hey, it's really no one's fault but Icarus' that he hungered after the sun and swallowed salt water instead. That likely burned, too.

"Well," she says awkwardly. The other shoe might've dropped. "I guess you choose then. I'm, um." She can't have only made four friends today if this is her world now, if this.. kid, he's just a kid, looks like he needs a friend, too. "I'm Wanda," she tells him, smiling.

She offers her hand, and hesitantly, God, _he's_ the hesitant one, he takes it, shakes it gently with his three fingers, and neither of them flinch. "Kurt Wagner," he introduces, grinning all teeth again, he decides something just now.

"Well," she says again, feeling so small and so teenage girl, it's silly, but. "According to the _Bible_ , well. Angels didn't look human, so you're probably more.. angelic. Than most of us. Uh."

All he does is stare at her, and she waits for her powers to burn through her, to catch in the lightbulb and burst it or something.

"I'm going to go find my brother," she explains needlessly, turning away from his mute nod. Back to conversations of her favorite _Star Wars_ character, if Kennedy and his family had Marilyn killed or not. If she's hungry, and _always_.

"What's with the face?" Peter asks, startling her. He's leaning on one of his crutches and just looks so tired at the end of a hall two corridors from that little closet, she remembers.

"Just an interesting conversation," she tells him, her lungs still a bit.. heavy. That talk was so loaded. Oh, goodness. "Have you met Kurt?"

"Yeah, but I know the other two Blues more." He ignores her pointed look. "Y'know they're planning a ceremony for that guy."

"Alex?"

"Yep."

"Did you know him?" she wonders. And regrets asking the second his face changes.

For a guy so fast, a lot of the time, he's too late. "Never even saw him," Peter jokes. 'Cause when isn't he?

\- -- - -- -

Now this isn't exactly a lesson, not officially.

Unofficially, of course it is, these children learn everyday and he wonders if someday, they'll be professors here, too.

"Some of you might be wondering why you're here," Charles says lightly, as light as the wind. The grass hasn't fully grown back, but the sun makes today lovely, makes it a perfect day to live, to save the world, to start one here with these fresh faces and the excitement on some. The apprehension on others.

"We got letters," Jubilee says dreamily from where she's stretched out on the lawn. And she did, as if the Fourth of July wasn't nationalistic enough, what's more bonafide than self-made fireworks?

"I didn't," Peter skulks, lazy and propped on pillow upon pillow.

"Yes, but you stole my card. And my keychain," Charles reminds him, that pain in the ass. "And I don't mean here in this mansion, I mean here in this world. As mutants." But that clarification didn't really need to be added.

Scott almost laughs, so pragmatic, says "Mutations," like it's the simplest question mankind has ever been asked.

"Genetics, actually." Where Jean's sitting cross-legged and alert on a blanket, he's reminded all too well of how she'd ask so many questions about the human genome. And maybe that -- that was genetic. Mother's side of the family, he's sure of it.

"Does it have to be scientific?" he wonders aloud, just for the enjoyment of watching these young people think like he can hear their thoughts just the way some of them fret their brows, look to the ground for the uncertainty of raising their voices.

"You mean, like, chemicals?" asks one.

"Fast food," snorts another, but oh, this is how it starts, so it begins.

"Growth hormones," he laughs. Hullabaloo, without a doubt. "It could be," he grants the young man. "We've all lost things here, however. They might make this seem like it isn't worth it."

"What exactly is this?" Ororo asks, eyes glit. She wants to believe, she does? But she was already promised a sort of Utopia.

"This is for tomorrow," he says so gently, so much conviction where there was vitriol only days past. "I can't promise we won't have to fight for it."

"Divine intervention," Kurt interrupts, looking sage, almost savage. His voice is shaky, but he's no jacket or hood to hide behind here.

"Yes," the Professor agrees, he's heard this before, but who better to believe these blessings a curse when you've been treated as this poor soul has to have been. "It could be a curse, yes. A mistake. It could just be God's good humor, I wager," and he truly could believe it.

"Maybe." Kurt shrugs. "Or it could be Gott's good graces," he says, and that could be it, too.


End file.
